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Dave's Zombie Proof Bunker and Refuge for Unattached Wimmens

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I wrote this a week ago and published it elsewhere. Hope it doesn't bring anyone down...



Shadows of old pleasures descend like a pall
and dance in faerie fire at the edges of my vision.
Gossamer ghosts waltz through now empty halls
where now dwell only my self loathing and derision.

I turn my head quickly, but can't discern if it's true.
Telling the shadows, "Stop! You know what I feel.
Don't torment my muddled mind; there's too
much there. Please show yourselves to be real."

Beyond my reach, the spirits assume semi-corporal form
My grasp cannot touch them, frustrating my desire.
How can this be? Is this my new norm?
Wandering empty rooms with a head made of fire?

Dust motes swirl in golden beams of evening sun
hollow echoes on bone dry floors mark my flight
as in hopeful, headlong desperation, I run
toward what again could be mine...if I will only fight.​
 
Chaingun said:
I wrote this a week ago and published it elsewhere. Hope it doesn't bring anyone down...



Shadows of old pleasures descend like a pall
and dance in faerie fire at the edges of my vision.
Gossamer ghosts waltz through now empty halls
where now dwell only my self loathing and derision.

I turn my head quickly, but can't discern if it's true.
Telling the shadows, "Stop! You know what I feel.
Don't torment my muddled mind; there's too
much there. Please show yourselves to be real."

Beyond my reach, the spirits assume semi-corporal form
My grasp cannot touch them, frustrating my desire.
How can this be? Is this my new norm?
Wandering empty rooms with a head made of fire?

Dust motes swirl in golden beams of evening sun
hollow echoes on bone dry floors mark my flight
as in hopeful, headlong desperation, I run
toward what again could be mine...if I will only fight.​
Click to expand...

:heart::heart::heart:
 
Chaingun said:
A back up might come in handy since the Abrams that we have, we were lucky to get. Most of them were either in the Middle East when the zombie plague broke out or were employed against the rapidly sickening populace and are spread all over God's creation. Difficult to find and worse, they are out there, where others amongst the still-living may get one or two running and use them against us. So Whip and I are going to need some spare parts and in this case, I wanted a spare tank. Besides, the older Patton model uses an easier to maintain diesel engine and has a few advantages over the newer, heavier Abrams.

Boys and their toys, right?



I'm sorry. How about some comfort food? I made pudding for dessert. You favorite flavor is vanilla, right?
Click to expand...
With a sigh, I slide my arms around him in the showers, damp hair dripping on his shoulder. I've been waiting a long time for a new weapon to master. Sort of a thing with me, I think. Find something new and dangerous, learn to use it, master it, then add it to my ever-growing arsenal of items I can use to inflict a horrid bloody death on others. Since finding the bunker I've learned how to use the gun cannon pretty darn well. Really, there's only one thing that worries me. To these people, I'm a pilot, a woman of the air.

So why so I know how to use a sniper rifle?
 
WhipLuvr said:
With a sigh, I slide my arms around him in the showers, damp hair dripping on his shoulder. I've been waiting a long time for a new weapon to master. Sort of a thing with me, I think. Find something new and dangerous, learn to use it, master it, then add it to my ever-growing arsenal of items I can use to inflict a horrid bloody death on others.
Click to expand...

Wait...are we talking about the tank or...me?



Her naked body behind mine symbolizes comfort and security to me in a way that I cannot explain. There are no words to describe what this one does to me when she offers herself to me this way.

That her body is offered for my use, that I am free to let go of all the controls that govern my behavior, that keep me upright, steadfast, and honorable...if only I would. My own disciplines are tightly controlled and difficult to set free. But she will one day strip me of them just as easily as blowing the seeds off of a dandelion.

That her mind is melded to mine irrevocably so; that there are no boundaries between us other than what we choose not to say but knowing full well that in their own time, those too will disappear, that even the life-long conversation that would earn her submission will forever bind me to her tighter than I could ever hope to have her bound to me, and that my words are near useless with this one anyway. She knows. She understands. And still, she wants it to be me. A forgiveness so complete that it crushes the soul and sets it free at the same time.
 
WhipLuvr said:
To these people, I'm a pilot, a woman of the air.

So why do I know how to use a sniper rifle?
Click to expand...

You are so talented at being talented, that it is my guess that you instinctively take to new things.

In college, I noticed that a female friend became a very good foosball player much faster than I did.

(Yeah...I was that guy. My best friend and I were partners and played foosball everywhere we went, entering tournaments in bars, and playing for fun at college and in our house. He was the power/speed player. He'd make the ball a blur that was difficult to stop. And I was the finesse/thinking player. My bank shots, changes in speed, and odd angles that I'd shoot from confused opponents and frustrated them after having to deal with his powerful shots.)

I remarked to my buddy that this woman was really improving and that her rate of improvement was alarming. He answered, "Yeah, women learn things faster than men. They pay attention. They act on the lessons. They think. But most importantly, they come to the lesson without a preconceived notion of how things should be and with no ego about being shown up by someone else, like men do."

I've found this to be generally true. Women do learn things easier if allowed to. Perhaps you instinctively took to the discipline and physics of using a sniper rifle effectively. I have to think it all out and question the person teaching me. Calculating wind, elevation, and minute of angle is not easy for me when I'm arguing every point in my mind. I have difficulty letting go and simply learning.

But perhaps there is something else going on that has made you very skilled with that weapon. Something that defies my amateur psychology...
 
There's a stillness around the bunker. People are probably either sleeping off last night's dance party or simply doing their chores that keep this place running and make us into a society again.

But follow your nose and let it lead you to the motor pool. That vague smell of burnt oil and diesel exhaust is the tell tale sign that something's not right about the way something else is running. The metallic clink of a dropped tool on a metal panel, the rumble of an air compressor starting and stopping, and a soft curse as I bust my knuckles for the third time in an hour--a very young hour--are all indications that I am working on the new tank. Well, old tank, actually.

The M60 Patton was first produced in 1960 and the last ones were built by Chrysler's Detroit Arsenal Tank Plant in 1987. The data tag on this vehicle says, "105 mm Gun Full Tracked Combat Tank M60." and its build date is listed as 1985. Same year I graduated high school. And any sympathy I may have for the old iron lady is dissipating quickly as my blood drips out of my damaged knuckle onto the head of the diesel.

Finally, the injectors are cleaned and ready for service. I had wondered if some of the tank's performance problems yesterday were because of the fuel system and as it turns out, the fuel had gotten old and clogged the engine's ability to feed itself. All should be great now.

The tracks are hardly worn from their time on the highway, the ammo locker is fully stocked except for the two rounds I fired yesterday, and it is fueled up and ready to visit mayhem upon those that would approach us in anything but a friendly and open posture.

I need another shower and then, I think I'm going to get my courage up and ask a nice young lady if she'll go for a walk with me so we can talk about anything but zombies and vehicles for once.
 
The sun is moving along its inevitable curve towards the western horizon and as it casts its golden glow on our springtime fields, it shimmers as if to say, "I'll be back tomorrow. Wait here."

The promise is old and never broken. Keeping this promise is the sun's job, after all. And what is my job? Keeping an old tank running? Keeping food, water, fuel, and heels in this place? Keeping these women safe?

They are safe enough without me. Every time I've left, they've done just fine by themselves. And they've handled themselves well in every fight we've had.

So what then? Has this place become my tomb? Am I the only one to not notice that I am already dead? That this existence isn't enough? Counting these sunsets day after day and waiting for the end? A few taken here, another carried off by the raiders, some dying of malnutrition, maybe even taking their own lives out of despair for the world that has moved on?

I don't know the answer. "How do I protect my woman" has always been my question as a Dom. "How do I protect these women" has been my dilemma for over a year now since we sheltered here.

Circular logic swirls and tumbles in the eddies of my thoughts, and for the hundredth time, I resolve that I will resolve nothing. Is living enough?

Are they happy, fulfilled...alive? That's one thing I always have looked for in a woman. That she is so alive it hurts your eyes to look directly at her like our big orange friend out there, 93 million miles past the horizon. And these women are definitely alive. Challengingly so.

"Move along, nothing to see here," I say to the sun as the last swallow of Blanton's Bourbon tickles the back of my throat and the glass is set down with a dull clunk on the concrete bunker's roof.

Soundlessly, the sun--that giant ball of violent, super heated gases--sinks into the oaks on the far horizon as a gentle breeze pushes my hair around my sleeping forehead.
 
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